Just for the record, which is all this is, I really hate that photograph of the girl with the baguette. I hate it so much that I had to put it up. It won't be there for long, though, of that I'm sure. It was done by Mark Velasquez, a douchebag pseudo-intellectual photographer who must be an absolute fucking delight to talk to.
I once read that, "everything that is decadent speeds up revolution." I was probably eating a Zagnut at the time. And I just got a notice in the mail that there is a Socialist Party meeting coming up. Well ring-a-ding-ding. My psychiatrist once told me to keep passing the open windows. That's from John Irving, and it's damn good advice, at least in the abstract.
It's hot outside, and moist. Sultry. Thus, I have the air conditioner on in my boudoir. I also happen to live with a little old man who never, ever thinks it's hot. So a battle has begun. There's no doubt that it's hot out, and that it will get even hotter tomorrow. But he won't complain, except maybe to say that it's too cold. The subjective experiences here are so bipolar. I'm a fat man in my 30's and he's a thin man in his 70's, and we may as well be on different planets when it comes to feeling temperature. I hope nothing of import will ever rely on us coming to an agreement on how hot it is, because that's not going to happen. Ever.
Suck, suck you fiend! Suck the moisture out of the air and make it cool for my fat body! Suck!
Anyway, my compromises are killing me. The older I get, the more whatever I was erodes away. Thank Christ.
About the last post, which certainly is different that the others; I was just having fun writing, in a strange way. It's true, in a sense, but it never happened.
1 comment:
people with overlarge mouths, especially women like the one in your profile picture, freak me the hell out. Maybe I've seen The Wall too many times.
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